


left here in darkness, and found you on the way

by oneworldaway



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, it's appropriate that emo kids wear black nail polish and root's nail polish makes me emo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneworldaway/pseuds/oneworldaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silently, she takes a seat in the chair Greer was sitting in when Shaw first woke up here, and stretches out as she pulls something out of her back pocket.</p>
<p>Her eyes finally adjusting to the light, Shaw watches as Martine produces a small glass bottle of black nail polish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left here in darkness, and found you on the way

It only takes a couple of days for Martine to show up. She breezes in as Shaw’s eyes flutter open, blinking against the harsh light of the sterile, white room, and Martine smiles as cheerfully as if she were picnicking in a meadow somewhere, rather than visiting an injured prisoner in a room with no windows. (Of course, it’s Martine; she’s probably more into shooting machine guns than picnics or meadows. They have that much in common, at least.) For a moment, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness in her heavily sedated state, Shaw thinks she’s going to wish her a good morning, taunt her in a singsong tone the way she’s seen all sorts of other operatives begin conversations with their marks. But Martine is different, Shaw realizes. She doesn’t say a word as she makes her way towards Shaw’s bed, the door clicking shut behind her. Silently, she takes a seat in the chair Greer was sitting in when Shaw first woke up here, and stretches out as she pulls something out of her back pocket.

Her eyes finally adjusting to the light, Shaw watches as Martine produces a small glass bottle of black nail polish. She doesn’t have a word for the feeling that creeps up her spine and spreads across her body; it’s bothersome, something she’d want to shake off if only her mobility weren’t so limited. Huffing out a sigh, Martine crosses one leg over the other, shaking the bottle vigorously for a moment before unscrewing the top. Setting the bottle down on the small table next to her, she begins to carefully paint her left thumbnail. 

Martine has definitely read Shaw’s file. There’s no doubting that she knows as much about Shaw as almost anyone does, right down to what makes her tick - and what doesn’t. She has to know emotional tactics like this won’t work on Shaw. 

But she’s doing it anyway. With a glint in her eyes not unlike what Shaw saw when she stood over her in the stock exchange, pointing her gun at Shaw’s head.

She’s _enjoying_ herself. She knows she can’t get to Shaw so easily, but here she is, painting her nails black by Shaw’s bedside, anyway, because she _wants_ to. Because she enjoys being malicious.

And _that’s_ what pisses Shaw off.

 

 

 

_Within three seconds of emerging into consciousness, Shaw is fully on alert, sensing someone else’s presence nearby. Bolting upright, she finds Root sitting at the foot of her bed, a bottle of black nail polish balanced against her knee as she paints her left pinkie. At first, she thinks Root’s gone and broken one of those unspoken rules of their arrangement and stayed the night, until she remembers that she hasn’t seen Root in days. She must’ve let herself in while Shaw was sleeping, which kind of makes Shaw want to kick her in the face._

_“Good morning, Sam,” Root chirps. “We have a relevant number in Albuquerque. Flight leaves in two hours. Breakfast is on the kitchen table.”_

_Shaw weighs her options. She_ could _question Root about breaking in, and the_ boundaries _she thought they’d established by now, and whether it’s even really the Machine that keeps insisting they go on these missions together - but also, food. And considering she already knows exactly how Root’s going to answer all of her questions, really, it just doesn’t make sense to waste her energy getting into it with her. Also, food._  

_So Shaw settles on sighing and rolling her eyes before she rolls out of bed, Root quickly picking up the nail polish bottle so it won’t spill all over her blankets. Padding her way into the kitchen, Shaw finds a breakfast sandwich she recognizes from a cafe a couple of blocks away presented neatly on one of her few plain white plates, a red apple sitting next to it on one side, a mug of steaming hot black coffee on the other._

_There’s still a part of Shaw hesitant to give in to Root even a little bit, but it quickly loses out to her growling stomach. It’s only after she’s sat down and demolished half the sandwich in little more than a minute that she casts a glance back towards her bedroom, watching as Root gently blows on her new coat of nail polish._

_At least it’ll be warmer in Albuquerque._

 

 

 

Martine paints her nails neatly, hardly getting any polish on her skin, just like Root. Shaw’s hands are steady - they had to be, when she was going to be a doctor - but she just never cared about stuff like nail polish enough to do a very tidy job of it. The few times she wore it when she was younger, she’d apply it carelessly, allowing the mess to wear away as she went about her life.

Shaw reaches for the remote one of the nurses brought her and flips on the TV to yet another news program. The only channels she’s been able to get are the news, and it’s always national, never offering any hint as to where they might be keeping her. 

Martine doesn’t even look up, focused on the nails on her right hand, now. Though she isn’t painting with her dominant hand anymore, her work remains precise.

 

 

 

_“I need a new polish,” says Root, scouring the selection at Shaw’s makeup counter while Shaw is still scowling at the fact that Root managed to sneak up on her,_ again _. Root just goes on shopping, undeterred. “Something...bold.”_  

_The pink polish she winds up buying doesn’t really suit her, if you ask Shaw, but she doesn’t give it much more thought after Root leaves. It’s nearly 3 in the morning when Shaw gets home, after her shift at the department store and her first job with Romeo and his crew, to find Root’s broken into her place,_ again _, though it’s a different place by now. Root pushes herself back from the kitchen table, where she’s been sitting in the dark, and just barely gives Shaw a moment to lock the door before she’s backing her up against it, her mouth latching onto Shaw’s pulse point._

_In the darkness, Shaw only distantly notes Root’s appearance, from the tight but elegant black dress hugging the outline of her body, to the dark red lipstick getting increasingly smeared around her lips (and all over Shaw’s skin, no doubt). It isn’t until Root’s deft hands are pushing Shaw’s skirt up over her hips that she notices the pink hue on her fingernails, so different from her usual black. And even in this heated frenzy, not unlike any of their other meetings, Shaw can tell that Root feels the difference, too. But if there’s something off about her tonight, Root makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm and vigor, until Shaw’s forgotten all about the colour of her makeup._

_When she sees Root again a few days later, she isn’t wearing any nail colour at all._

 

 

 

Finished with her second coat, Martine sets the bottle down on the bedside table, surveying her near flawless work. For the first time since she’s sat down here, Shaw feels Martine’s gaze slide back over to her, but doesn’t bother to return it. A long moment passes before Martine gives up, looking back down at her hand with a self-satisfied little smile that bothers Shaw inordinately, even just barely able to see it in her peripheral vision.

On the TV, a news anchor with a deep, steady voice talks over footage of a car in flames on the side of a highway in Alabama. A 39-year-old man and his 12-year-old daughter were both DOA.

 

 

 

_“You don’t wear that nail polish anymore,” says Shaw, and the rhythm of Root’s fingers inside of her falters. It’s dark in the motel room they’re in tonight, and it’s not like Shaw can even see her hands from where she’s lying back now, anyway, one of them working away between her legs, the other gripping her thigh, nails leaving angry marks behind on her soft skin._

_“Didn’t think you noticed that kind of thing,” Root replies, recovering quickly, even though they both know it’s a bad line - Shaw was trained to be observant, after all. But whether or not she’s noticed, it’s not the kind of thing Shaw would normally comment on._

_Shaw’s voice is even, almost unaffected; she kind of likes how indignant Root gets about that, so she does her best to hide the almost imperceptible speeding up of her breath. “You’ve always worn that stuff,” she remarks, still staring up at the ceiling, shifting her legs as her voice catches just a little. “Except for lately.”_

_Outside, a car pulls into the parking lot, its headlights illuminating Root’s face through the thin curtains before it’s shut off, casting her into the shadows once more. The heel of her hand brushes against Shaw’s clit, and Root smirks just a little when Shaw sucks in a breath. “Haven’t had much time for manicures lately, I guess,” she says airily, picking up her pace a bit. “There’s more important work to attend to. Besides,” she adds, dragging her nails up along Shaw’s torso, “the black would hardly suit Mary-Anne Jacquard, the substitute English teacher.”_

_“That who you are today?” asks Shaw, grabbing at the scratchy motel blankets beneath her, her voice the slightest bit raspier than usual._

_“Mm-hmm,” Root purrs, reaching up to twist one of Shaw’s nipples between her thumb and forefinger. “Why, Sam? Interested in a little extra credit?”_

_“I’ll pass,” Shaw grunts, but she chokes on the words, giving up on trying to stay still and riding Root’s hand with abandon._

_“Suit yourself,” says Root, and with one curl of her fingers, Shaw’s a goner, muscles clenching around Root as she comes._

_Minutes later, perhaps, Shaw watches out of the corner of her eye as Root crawls up to lay on her back next to her, settling in on the pillows as she licks her hand clean. “What about yesterday?” asks Shaw, the low, sleepy rumble of her voice breaking the silence otherwise punctuated by the sound of Root sucking on her fingers. Root turns her head towards her, raising an eyebrow. “Who were you then?” Shaw clarifies._  

_Confusion flashes across Root’s face, a look she only thinks to cover up a moment too late. “Angela Simon,” she answers softly. “Freelance photographer.”_

_Shaw doesn’t bother to ask who she’ll be tomorrow. Even Root probably doesn’t have the answer, and Shaw already knows the face she’d make if she asked her to think about it._  

_She’s seen Root struggling since Samaritan went online, changing identities like the rest of them change clothes, while she and the others all have one cover to stick to. Every time they meet, Root’s a little more frantic, pressing herself against Shaw harder, bringing her to the edge faster, more desperately. And every time, she can see the pieces of Root that are being chipped away._

_But dealing with this sort of thing isn’t Shaw’s forte at all. And even when the program she’d dedicated her life to tried to have her killed, she’s sure she never looked quite as lost as Root does lately, whenever she finds her waiting in her bedroom or her kitchen or a motel room in the dead of night._

_Shaw just doesn’t feel these things - but that doesn’t mean she thinks Root should have to. So maybe she doesn’t have to understand. Maybe, she thinks, as she rolls on top of Root, removing her slick hand from her mouth and replacing it with her own lips, this can be enough._

_And when Root bites her lips, and digs her nails into the curve of Shaw’s ass, she does seem more like herself again._

 

 

 

Martine stretches as she finally rises from her seat, looking from the TV back down to Shaw. “Maybe next time I can do yours,” she suggests, nodding at the bottle she’s left behind on the table. Shaw just raises an eyebrow at her, as if to ask, _Seriously?_ And with a little half-shrug, Martine strides out of the room, leaving Shaw on her own once more.

Shaw turns the TV off, tossing the remote aside and turning to look at the bottle on the bedside table. Drifting back into her medicated sleep, she isn’t taunted by the memory of Root’s dark nails as her hands made their pilgrimage to every corner of Shaw’s body. And she isn’t taunted by the beeping of the hospital machines, because it’s all drowned out by her own heartbeat in her ears. She could never be afraid, because even when her heart felt like a clock ticking as it counted down to the end of the world, Root’s fingers on her skin traced the path to their salvation. And in the haze of this maybe-morning, _that_ is all that Shaw remembers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> In my last fic the italicized parts were AU scenarios that didn't actually happen, but in this fic, they're flashbacks. Just thought I'd mention that in case there's any confusion.
> 
> The dialogue in the second flashback is from the final Root/Shaw scene in episode 4x01.
> 
> Title is from the song "Silver and Cold" by AFI.


End file.
